How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
(William Butler Yeats)
Истина превращается в такой же мираж, как выдумка.
(Ian McEwan)
When real things become the past
How could you tell them from imagination?
True moments of existence last
As long as they enhance the spirit of creation...
My mind is just a lonely pilgrim...
When once abandoned recollections lure –
Halt – we live a blind daydream...
No earthly place to be secure...
No swelling seas to get me into rapture,
No wind to fill me with all cleansing awe,
No wildly storming waves to fracture
My calm horizon, to dismay my shore...
My thoughts are fast paced quirky spiders
That weave the web of changing scenes,
Needless but permanent reminders...
Truth and delusion are twin means.
I search the world to meet your eyes,
I let chimeras win the race,
Hallucinations equalize
And balance up my shaky space.
I beg to drown my inner singer -
Is he angelic or demonic?
I need your primal voice to linger
Suffusing me with vital tonic.
Your body is my placid haven,
And when I get its loving spell
I dare not about heaven,
I fear not for death and hell...
Your love soars floating so high
Lost and unseen in air chase
Circling where all dual things die
And azure flares in a blaze...